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I brought Mary Oliver.

Together we sat on the rusting step

of our old blue camper,

listening to the peewit of the Lapwings

and lazily searching the Machair

for their wispy crown feathers

and iridescent green-black backs.

It mattered not that we could not

find them.

It was enough - the knowing.

That and breathing the salty air.

Until suddenly they took flight.

Two dozen or more white rounded wings

dancing staccato notes on the wind.

The only deceit was in their ‘just being’.

And it was more than enough for Mary and I.

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